“Matthew!”
He turned and shook away those wicked thoughts as he watched his mother approach him. The duchess looked lovely in her finery, but he saw concern flash across her face before she leaned up to kiss his cheek.
“Mama,” he said as he took her hand tucked it into the crook of his arm. “I’m so glad to find you. Would you like to take a turn on the dancefloor?”
She laughed as if the idea were absurd. “I will leave you to all the eligible ladies, I think. You know I do not dance.”
“You should,” he said, giving her a side glance. “You were always very good at it.”
“With your father as partner,” she said with a sad smile. “I doubt I’d be much good with someone else.”
“Says the woman who is determined I find myself a new dance partner,” he said as they looked out over the crowd together.
She squeezed his arm gently. “I push too hard, do I?”
He looked down at her, at that kind face he so adored. The one that had seen him through such grief. The one that wanted a future for him that he feared he could not provide.
“Not at all,” he said softly. “You have my best interest at heart. How could I complain about that?”
“You can’t,” she said. “But you can certainly complain about my methods.”
“I would not dare to do so,” he teased. “And risk your wrath?”
His mother rolled her eyes. “My wrath that is of legend?”
He chuckled and felt a wave of comfort wash over him. He did feel more himself when he was with family and friends. The self he had settled into since Angelica’s death. There was an ease to that, one he lost the moment he stepped into the masquerade and was confronted by burning desire that lit in him when he saw his stranger.
“You are very far away tonight,” the duchess said. “Are you bored at the ball?”
He shrugged. “It is a ball. I suppose it’s as fine a way to spend time as any other.”
“Enthusiastic,” she drawled. “So there is no one here who catches your interest?”
Matthew sighed as he let his gaze scan the room. He found friends aplenty, for most of the dukes had come to the party and were either gathered in clusters, talking to the other guests, or spinning around the floor with their brides. There were other friends to be found, as well. Friends outside his tight knit group, including their host.
But that wasn’t what his mother meant about interest. She meant ladies. Unattached, marriageable ladies. Ones that would help eventually carry on his father’s legacy by marrying him and birthing his sons.
“I don’t—” he began, and then came to a stop. The crowd had parted slightly and revealed not a lady who caught his eye, but someone else. Someone far worse.
“What is it?” the duchess asked as she lifted on her tiptoes to gaze over the crowd with him.
“Fenton Winter,” he breathed.
The name caused a visceral reaction in his mother. She caught her breath and grabbed for his arm with both hands. “Matthew,” she whispered.
There was a reason for the strength of that reaction. Winter was Angelica’s father. For years their families had gotten along. The man had approved of their match. But when she died, Winter had been truly devastated. He had rained down rage and heartbreak, as well as accusations, on Matthew’s head.
Normally they did not attend the same events. Matthew made certain of that. But tonight there the man was. Over the years, he’d grown thinner. Gaunt, even. His jaw was set as he looked at the dancefloor, a line of displeasure that Matthew had come to know very well.
But he clearly had not yet seen Matthew, for he had no doubt Winter would have already come smashing across the ballroom for a public confrontation if he had.
“Perhaps I should go,” he murmured.
His mother said something in reply, but he didn’t hear her. In that moment, a lady came off the dancefloor and stopped in front of Winter. She had her back to Matthew—he could not see her face, but he didn’t need to.
There was familiarity in the way she moved. The way her gown hung on her slender shoulders. In the dark, silky magic of her perfectly arranged hair.
That was…it looked like his swan. His stranger. His lover. And she was talking to Fenton Winter in a ballroom of a viscount, standing not fifty feet from Matthew.
